Page 82 of Clive Cussler Desolation Code

Disappointed, Vaughn turned to the screen and spoke a single word. “Begin.”

The machine sprang to life, moving closer to Paul’s head and extending three of its six arms toward him. The first one gripped Paul’s skull, holding it still. A second pulled up and out of the way as if waiting on standby. She saw a gold-plated mesh that looked vaguely electronic in its clutches. The third arm held a drill, which it moved into place above Paul’s forehead.

The bit began spinning, the hideous, high-pitched sound reminiscent of the worst dentistry nightmare Gamay could imagine. It moved downward with mechanical precision, pausing only millimeters above Paul’s head.

“Tell us what we want to know,” Vaughn demanded. “Or I will turn your husband into athingyou no longer recognize.”

Chapter 48

“Stop!” Gamay shouted.

It was a cry of pure desperation. The kind of plea she was not used to uttering. And while neither Vaughn nor the rat bastard lifted a finger, the surgical robot stopped and raised the spinning drill.

“It will listen to you,” Vaughn explained. “If you give us what we want, the drill will remain paused. But if you remain silent…”

Seconds ticked by. Gamay felt sick. No longer was she fearless. In fact, she was terrified. She found she couldn’t think, couldn’t act. The silence must have lasted too long because the drill began to move again. Tipping back into position and spinning up to full speed once more.

Gamay found her breath coming in spurts, as if she’d jumped into icy water. Her diaphragm would not move correctly. Her lungs would not fill with air.

Think, she told herself.Act.

The drill proceeded downward. This time it dug into Paul’s scalp, curling off a piece of skin like an orange peel. Blood began to fly outward in splatters.

“Wait,” she shouted again. “Please. This is insanity.”

The drill stopped and pulled back once more. Blood oozed from Paul’s skull. It ran down the side of his face.

“Tell us about the mosquitoes.”

Gamay waited as long as she could. But when the drill started up again, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “We were attempting to use a virus to change the mosquitoes so they wouldn’t be able to absorb malaria or dengue fever, which kills millions of people around the world every year.”

“And?”

“We accidentally discovered a method that would allow the mosquitoes to carry any type of virus, from Ebola to syphilis. Anything that could be carried in the blood.”

“Yes,” Vaughn said. “A doomsday revelation. This we already know. But how was it done? What genes of the mosquito did you alter?”

“No,” Gamay said, shaking and shrinking back. “Why do you want to know this? No one should want to know this.”

The drill hung over Paul, continuing to spin. A fourth arm moved into place. This one held a bone cutter saw, which wound up as hideously as the drill.

“We can give him back to you as he is,” Vaughn said. “Or he can join the others.”

With that statement, an array of lights came on inside the floor beneath them. Gamay looked down. The flooring had seemed opaque, but now lit from within, it revealed itself to be a scuffed but otherwise translucent acrylic. Beneath it she saw ghostly white bodies floating in an amber liquid. Their eyes were closed, their noses and mouths covered by masks that held air and feeding tubes, which had been inserted into their throats and windpipes. Wires were attached to them by the hundreds. They wafted and lolled in the fluid like seagrass.

“My God,” she gasped.

“Yes,” Vaughn replied. “The machine will soon be just that.”

Gamay found she couldn’t look away. The people were arranged like the hours of a clock, with their heads toward the middle. She counted nine of them, with three slots open and waiting.

She understood instantly. Either these men would get what they wanted, or Paul would join these people. If he didn’t die in the process first.

She knew at that moment there was no way she could resist. And yet, if she gave them what they wanted, she and Paul and every member of theIsabella’s crew would probably die or become a part of the machine anyway.

The only win they could hope for—the only pyrrhic victory she could imagine—was to deny these men the information they sought. And that meant she had to die before they forced it from her.

Tears streamed down her face. She looked up at the screen. “I’m sorry, Paul.”

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